Outliers
by Red Weather Tiger
Summary: A dangerous young woman with an obsession becomes a killer to get close to Sherlock, but her last victim is the only one that really matters. Sherlock/OC...John/Sarah...Sherlock/John
1. On Again

**Outliers **

**Disclaimer: I obviously don't own these characters. **

**Note: This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. It's also my first general fanfiction in quite a while. Bare that in mind. I would appreciate any comments, questions or criticisms.**

**Note 2: I've been getting a lot of views for this, which I greatly appreciate, but I haven't gotten too many reviews. I would love to hear what you think, good or bad, so please, please review! Thank you. :)**

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_Where is he? _

An hour and thirty-six minutes. That's how late he was. One hour, thirty-six minutes and forty-two seconds. What was the game here? Did John expect him to be worried, waiting for him? Did John expect to waltz in and find him pacing the floor, ready to wag a finger the minute his partner's feet alighted the stairs? Or perhaps John was just late. People could be late, it was entirely possible.

But not probable. John had been late in coming home exactly twice since they'd met, and both of those times he'd been detained against his will. Explanations raced through Sherlock's mind, but none of them seemed likely enough. None of them fit. His fingers twitched over the fret of his violin, the bow bouncing methodically over the strings. He had to decide which melody to play next. Was it to be hauntingly beautiful, or jarringly dissonant? That depended on when John was coming home. Sherlock had to be sure to save the ugliest melodies for his colleagues' arrival.

It had to be her. She was detaining him. It was Saturday, nearly two in the morning, and John had been wearing his best jacket when he'd told Sherlock "I'm out for a bit. Be home by midnight." What a lie that had been. Sherlock's arm swept back and forth, drawing out one cord over and over from the strings. He felt the vibration in his fingertips and closed his eyes for a moment, forgetting his thoughts amid the sound.

If he concentrated on the sound, the vibration, he could forget about his partner and his lateness, and focus instead on the case at hand. _The letterbox killer_, as the police were already so fond of calling her, had killed five so far. It had already been two days since the last victim was found, and Sherlock could feel the itch building inside of him, welling up in his chest, telling him he didn't have much time.

Sherlock glanced at the empty chair across from him, and the note from his violin died away with a whimper. How had he allowed this to happen? How had he let himself get so comfortable with having a partner that he could no longer think without John to bounce ideas off of? What was he supposed to do if John didn't come home? Who would hear his ideas besides the walls, the television, possibly Mrs. Hudson? Most importantly, _where was John_?

These thoughts, louder than any of those struggling for space in his mind, were interrupted when his phone rang. _Private Caller _the screen told him. Sherlock smiled, this would most certainly be good.

"Hello." He said, calm, emotionless.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The voice on the other line was distorted, but obviously female. So he had been correct in that at least.

"You have him." Sherlock bent down and placed his violin and bow in their case with his free hand. He had to think about the movement, his hand unsteady with excitement.

"Not quite." The woman replied, her voice suggesting a smile. "But soon enough, I hope."

Sherlock smiled back, "Really? Shall I wait for you here, then?"

"Are you all alone tonight, Sherlock? Or is your confidant on his way home?"

"I'm not sure. Will that affect you plans?" Sherlock stood up, looking around. He had just checked the flat for cameras this morning. If she was watching him she was either very close, or an outside surveillance system was working against him.

"I don't have any plans for tonight, Sherlock. I believe in taking things slow."

"Old fashioned, then, are you?" Sherlock stood near the window, body against the wall, only the smallest sliver of his face visible between the curtains. There were no signs of activity on the block. "How refreshing."

"Sleep well, detective," said the woman, her voice gentle even through the distortion. "We'll speak soon."

"No doubt."

And so the game, so irretrievably dull and fruitless a moment before, was on once again. Sherlock sat back down in his chair, two long fingers resting on his lips. He would have to analyze everything the woman had said, the way she had said it, and under what provocation. It would take time, but information could most definitely be gleaned from this.

But now the outside door was slamming downstairs. Heavy footsteps reached him, tearing his thoughts away from the case, the woman. There were many distinct footsteps, meaning there was more than one person about, probably two, and judging by the thumping, faltering pattern of the sounds, the two people were drunk. Sherlock tried to block them out, to keep the woman's voice in the front of his mind, but the couple merely got louder, both laughing, whispering and telling each other to be quiet, as the ascended the stairs and approached the door to the living room. Sherlock took a breath in, closed his eyes, and braced himself.

John spoke first, only his head visible as he leaned in through the doorway. "Evening Sherlock," he had managed to force most of his face into a serious pose, but his bright eyes betrayed him. Past him, on the landing, there was a snort.

Sherlock didn't speak immediately. He made John wait, balanced on one foot, clinging to the door frame. "You should be saying 'morning, Sherlock.' It is just about two o'clock after all."

John looked down at his watch, pitching forward a bit at the movement. "So it is. Lord, I'm sorry. I hadn't intended to be out so...so long." He looked up at Sherlock and, with genuine concern in his eyes, stepped forward into the room. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you've been working this whole time. I intended on being here. Helping you."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand that stopped John in his tracks, "Let's not dwell on mistakes. It's best if you just sleep this off. I don't want you hung over for tomorrow. We have a few places to visit."

John smiled with one corner of his mouth and nodded. He wished Sherlock a shaky goodnight, saluting him casually with two fingers before turning to go. Sherlock heard a few moments' heated discussion between John and Sarah before John seemed to break away from her and head upstairs to his room. Sherlock stared down at the floor in front of his chair, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Sarah looking in on him, her eyes boring a heated stare into his skull. Then they were gone, and Sherlock was alone again, suddenly very aware of the emptiness, the silence.


	2. Run, Chase

Sherlock awoke only when the rays of sunlight from the window finally made their way across the floor to rest over his face. He blinked his eyes open, one hand shielding them from the light. He was on the couch, where he had finally stumbled into semi-sleep the night before. There was a blanket over him that he had not placed there. Noises from the kitchen told him, even through his sleep muddled brain, that John was awake and making tea.

He must have groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers, for John immediately stuck his head around the corner and wished him good morning. Sherlock grumbled a reply, forcing himself to sit up and look around.

"I have no idea how you could possibly sleep there," John was saying from the kitchen. "That has got to be the least comfortable couch in history. You must be hurting today."

Sherlock smiled, standing up and stretching his limbs over his head. "Are you assuming so, or hoping?"

A woman's voice drifted down the staircase, through the hall and into the living room. Sarah was humming as she came down the stairs in a robe Sherlock had never seen before, her hair wet and her feet bare. She stopped when she entered the room and saw Sherlock standing a few feet away. They blinked at each other for a few moments, before Sarah broke away and headed for the kitchen.

The happy couple said a good morning Sherlock tried not to listen to, focusing instead on locating his phone. He felt in his trouser pockets, where he was certain it had been last night, and swept his gaze across the living room, but there was no sign of it.

"John?" he asked, coming around the corner to the kitchen. "Have you seen my phone?"

John was in the process of taking eggs out of the refrigerator while Sarah heated a pan on the stove. John was smiling, and Sherlock realized he had never seen his hair so out of place, his movements so uncontrolled. John was happy this morning, and for a moment, watching him, Sherlock forgot what he had asked him just a moment before. John thought for a moment, then turned, looking puzzled. "No. I figured you had it on you."

"Yes..." Sherlock turned his back to the couple and began lifting up cushions on chairs and stacks of paper from the table. Something was not right. The sound of something vibrating stopped Sherlock in his tracks in less than a minute. It was a loud sound, as if the phone was on a hard surface. Sherlock dropped to his knees and listened, white fingers splayed on the carpet in front of him. It was coming from underneath the armchair.

A dexterous hand pulled the phone from its hiding place. He had received a text.

**Good morning, Sherlock. Lovely day for a walk, isn't it?**

There was only one good explanation for why his phone would have left his pocket and ended up across the room. The theory would have to be tested, however.

"Thank you for the blanket, John," he said, standing up and addressing his partner once again.

John looked up from the stove, another smile fading from his lips, "What?"

Sherlock smiled, "I said thank you for the blanket you brought to me this morning. I might have been freezing last night without it."

"Sherlock," John began slowly, turning toward him with spatula in hand, "I didn't give you that blanket. You had it on you when I came down here less than an hour ago."

The smile on Sherlock's lips shifted from one of feigned gratitude to a smirk of sudden understanding. "I see. Please don't be alarmed, either of you," he was throwing his coat on, reaching for his scarf, "but I believe someone has been here."

John left the spatula on the counter and followed Sherlock into the living room, "What do you mean, 'been here?'"

"I mean entered, penetrated, broken in," Sherlock glanced down at his phone. "I have to take a walk. Please, by all means, feel free not to stay here today. I believe we're- _I'm_- being watched."

He made sure to be out of the room and earshot before John could make a reply, before he could look back at his disheveled partner and waste any time in momentarily forgetting where he was. He grabbed his gloves from the chair in the foyer and stepped outside into biting, sobering air.

He had been walking a half hour before there was any sign of his stalker. There had been no cameras on his block that he could see from the street, and no one he'd passed so far had appeared at all out of the dull and ordinary. It was only when he was preparing to circle round and make the trip back to Baker Street that sharp, persistent footsteps sounded behind him.

The steps were quick, close together. The stalker was rather short, but limber, enough to keep up with his long strides. The heavy snap of the footsteps confirmed that it was indeed a woman who was following him, wearing high-heeled boots. She remained no less than ten feet behind him for nearly a block, making sure every step she took could be heard, before he turned a corner and, suddenly, the sound disappeared.

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't have to see who it was before picking it up.

"You're persistent. I can see that already." He frowned at the ground, the phone pressed to his ear.

"Diligence is the key to success," said the woman, her voice no longer distorted as it had been the night before. Her real voice was smooth and confident, but most definitely young. "So, tell me, what have you discerned so far?"

"You're a young woman, between twenty and twenty-five, judging by your voice and quick steps. You're accent places you somewhere in North East England. You're smart, but also overly confident, indicating that you are perhaps inexperienced in dealings with the police," he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, listening for more footsteps, but none came, "and with me."

"What makes you think I'm overly confident?" she was smiling, he could hear it.

"You broke into my house on the night of our first contact."

"You can check, there will be no sign of forced entry."

Sherlock sighed, "On this, the second day of contact, you choose the very risky rout of sticking close, instead of calling me from a place where you might not run the risk of being seen."

"Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of tracking you from afar. I have somewhere I need you to go, and I have to make sure you get there. You've reached the corner, yes?"

"Yes." Sherlock, looked around himself, at everyone moving past him on the street. There were only two young women and none holding phones. She was close, but no longer close enough to see.

"Turn right. Go two more blocks and then turn left."

Sherlock did as he was told. _How interesting, _he thought, his pace quickening until he easily outstripped every other pedestrian, _she's leading me somewhere. Another victim, perhaps? But why me this time, and not the police?_

"By now I'm sure you've guessed where you're headed, but do you know why?" Her sentences were broken up by quick, sharp breaths, she was struggling some to keep up with him.

"You really don't have a lot of means, do you?" Sherlock said, taking his pace up to a jog, "You have to follow me on foot."

"A poor criminal is not necessarily a bad one, Sherlock. Take this street down to the next light, then go left."

Sherlock nodded, following the instructions, "I would never say otherwise, Miss...hm. Is there something I should be calling you?"

"You know my voice, my age, you even know my shoes. I think that's enough for one day."

Sherlock smiled, then, suddenly, he placed the phone at his side and broke into a run. He could hear laughter from the phone's speaker as he raced for the light, reaching it just in time to cross left and bolt to the other side of the street. He stopped at the corner and put the phone back to his ear. The woman was still laughing in between breaths.

"You like to play games, don't you, Sherlock?" She was smiling again through her words, "I do too. That's why you're here. You don't have the other pieces I've laid out for you, do you?"

Sherlock frowned, looking left and right on the street, "The notes you left in the letter boxes. Yes, unfortunately the police don't often trust me so much as to let me take evidence from a crime scene."

"The notes are obviously for you."

"I tried to tell them that. I was almost arrested for hindering an investigation."

Over the speaker he heard the sharp knock of her foot hitting the pavement, "How disappointing. Those idiots ruin everything," she sighed, "but no matter. Please, Sherlock, turn around go down the street you just turned onto. About halfway down the block there is an alley. Go to the end, and turn the corner. There's a present for you."

"Is it a body?" Sherlock feigned excitement, shaking his free fist and bobbing up and down on his knees, "Oh, _please _tell me it's a body."

A few moments later, standing in the alley, the body strewn, broken and gushing in front of him, Sherlock wished he hadn't said that. Mangled limbs and twisted torso barely made the form of a man, his head hanging onto his neck by only a few thin fibers. Sherlock clutched a cloth to his face and turned away. "Dear god..."

She was still on the line. "There's a note in his front shirt pocket, if you can make out where that is. The note is for you, just like all the others. Perhaps you can use it to convince the police to hand over the other notes."

"I am going to call them." Sherlock breathed deeply through his mouth, holding the cloth tight to his nose. He couldn't look at it, the thing just laying there, barely a human anymore.

"I know. But you won't call them until after you have the note, and who knows how long it will take you to retrieve it. Don't worry about me, I'm not even here."

Sherlock leaned up against the wall of the alley, which suddenly seemed much narrower and more restricting than it had moments before. "Let me guess, we'll speak soon?"

"Of course. Oh, but one more thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock held his breath, "Yes?"

"You left your pet at home today. That was smart. It will be safer for him. You do want to keep him safe, don't you?"


	3. Rattled

**Note: This story is being built one chapter at a time. When I write one chapter, I haven't necessarily given much thought to what happens in the next. It's an exercise I wanted to try, so I hope you'll be patient. If anything seems disjointed, that's the reason. Please, let me know what you think. **

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Sherlock waded through the rest of his time at the crime scene with his head down. He briefly told Lestrade what had happened, careful to tell him only what he needed to know. He ignored Donovan's insistence that he be treated as a suspect in the mangled man's murder, and managed to pry the rest of the woman's notes from Anderson's grubby fingers before disappearing from the alley, and running for four blocks, until he could no longer hear sirens.

But even now, standing on some street corner or another, staring at the sky and trying to slow his breathing, Sherlock did not feel free of the image of the man in the alley, nor of the woman's voice as she'd spoken so calmly to him over the phone.

He leaned against a building, watching as far too many people marched by on the street, everyone making noise, drowning out his thoughts. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gritted his teeth against the sounds. He had to keep his mind on what was important. Where was John? Find John.

Sherlock picked his phone out of his pocket, dialed and waited. The phone rang once, then again, then a third time.

"Pick _up_," Sherlock hissed into the phone. It rang again He leaned his head against the cold stone of the building and closed his eyes. "Come on, John." The phone rang again. Nearly snarling, Sherlock glanced down at the bag of letters in his hand. Two had been taken off the mangled man in the alley; the other five were from the previous victims. He hadn't looked at them yet, and he itched to know what they said, but this was more pressing.

Finally, after another ring and several agonizing seconds, there was a rustling noise, and Sherlock heard John's voice say a groggy hello.

"Where are you right now, John?"

Sherlock heard something shift on the other end of the line. John no doubt realizing where he was. "I'm at the flat," John said, "I guess I fell asleep."

"And Sarah?"

"She had a shift this afternoon. She's gone."

Sherlock saw a man stop on the curb just in front of him and hail a cab. "So you're alone?" he said, moving toward the man.

"Yes, of course, who else would be over?" John was sitting up now, probably rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm like he always did. "Sherlock, do you need me to be somewhere?"

"No," Sherlock stumbled past the man, grabbing the cab's door handle just as the man was reaching for it. He pressed the phone to his shoulder and looked back at the man, "Terribly sorry, but you'll have to find another one. Got a bit of an emergency here." He smiled as sincerely as possible before climbing into the cab and slamming the door on the man's protests. He told the cabbie the address and put the phone back up to his ear. "No, John, just stay where you are. I'll be home in a few minutes. Just," he paused, looking out on the streets that began to rush by in colorful blurs. She was still out there, somewhere. "Just, don't go anywhere."

Sherlock could hear John's hesitation in his voice, "Sherlock, what's going on? Is something wrong?"

"No." Sherlock thought a moment, "Yes. I'm not sure. Just wait for me, I'll tell you when I return."

John was in the kitchen when Sherlock finally entered the living room flopped his whole body along the length of the sofa. John must have heard the noise, for he came around the corner a second later, two cups of tea in his hands. Sherlock had covered his face, long fingers pressed over his eyes. He didn't bother to look up at John until he had set one cup of tea on the table and stared at Sherlock for nearly a minute.

"What's wrong?" John said the moment Sherlock peeked one eye through his fingers to look at him.

"What makes you think something is wrong?" Sherlock sat up and began unbuttoning his coat.

"You called. And you sounded frazzled." John was wearing one of his sweaters, green today, and was staring Sherlock down, his jaw set. John's emotions often clashed with his clothing.

Sherlock smiled a little out of one corner of his mouth. "You know, if you want someone to take you seriously, you ought not to wear sweaters when you interrogate them."

John looked down, suddenly self-conscious, "What's wrong with my sweater?"

"Nothing," Sherlock waved a hand, "It's fine. Green is good. It suits you."

John narrowed his eyes. "Thank you...I suppose."

Sherlock leaned against the back of the couch, letting his neck curl over the top and resting his head against the wall. He looked at the ceiling, because he couldn't look at John, all seriousness and concern, without feeling somehow guilty. After all, he was about to thrust John into another case, another situation where he might be in danger. He heard John take a chair from the desk, pull it toward the couch, and sit down.

"You're going to have to tell me eventually. You might as well get it over with and save both of us the trouble."

Sherlock sighed, glancing at John over the bridge of his nose. "I've been speaking with the murderer."

"What, you mean the letterbox killer?" John was suddenly interested; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. Although, it may not be appropriate to call her that now."

"_Her_?"

"Yes, it's a woman. A young woman, early to mid-twenties." Sherlock pointed to the bag he had let drop onto the table. "Those are the notes."

John picked up the bag, "All of them? I thought the police wouldn't let you have them."

"I was able to persuade Lestrade to hand them over after the killer led me, and me alone, straight to a body."

John had begun taking the notes from the bag and laying them out one by one on the table. He stopped when he heard this last and stared at Sherlock, his mouth open. "The killer _led _you to a body? When?"

"Just now. I went for a walk, remember? She's the one who suggested it." Sherlock suddenly wished John had been there, then he wouldn't have to recount the entire story to him now, and relive it. But John kept pressing, so he told him the entire tale, everything she said, everything she had made him do, even the state of the body he had found in the alley.

"That's disgusting." John said, his cup of tea hovering just below his chin. He took a drink, but the look of revulsion never left his face. "Do you really think she did that? Murdered and mangled that man by herself?"

Sherlock shrugged. "So far there is no evidence to suspect she has an accomplice, and she made it clear she's not exactly a woman of means. She even called herself poor."

"She could just want us to think that." John was thinking hard, Sherlock could see it in the furrows on his forehead.

Still, Sherlock shook his head, "The bodies, the notes- they're for_ me_, John. She calls them presents. She's doing all of this to get to me. This is about me and her, and that's it." Sherlock leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his thumbs. "No, she's not working with anyone."

John narrowed his eyes as he thought about this, then, suddenly, a small smile came to his lips. "She's the one that snuck in here then, right? So she put the blanket on you last night."

"It would appear so, yes."

John's smile widened. "So, she likes you."

"It would appear so, yes," Sherlock repeated, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

"Wonderful. Just great," John put his hands up in exasperation. "You know, since I've known you, I don't think we've gone a month without some criminal making a pass at you. It would be nice if you would just stop being so..." he paused, the word dying on his lips.

"So, what, John?" Sherlock hid a smile behind his cup of tea, his eyes feigning mere curiosity.

"You know, so, just, _you,_" John spat finally, "If you could stop being so you for two seconds, it would save us both a lot of trouble."

Sherlock could no longer hide his smile. John's embarrassment was well concealed but, as usual, his eyes gave him away. "I appreciate the advice," he said, melting back into the couch cushions, "but I can't be anyone but me."

They stared at each other for a few silent moments, both smiling for a reason that was beyond them. John was the first to speak again. "So, is that it, then? Is that really all you have to tell me?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and regarded John at an angle, "What do you mean?"

John sighed, "Sherlock, you called me."

"So?"

"So, you never call. I'm always getting your little texts, usually in inconvenient, even dire, situations. But you actually called this time. So, what aren't you telling me?" John had always seemed discerning to Sherlock, but now he was getting down right logical.

"You're getting a lot better at this, you know. Observing, making reasonable judgments." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and his cup, "I'm almost proud."

John was not amused. "Flattering me is not going to get you out of an explanation."

Sherlock's face suddenly fell into a frown. He stood up and walked toward the other side of the room, away from John, and was silent for a few moments. When he spoke again, his voice was deep, serious. "Anyone can text for you. You could be tied up somewhere, bleeding to death, and the assailant could simply text me that you're fine, at home, safe. I needed to hear your voice. I had to be sure you were actually here, actually safe."

"Sherlock," John's voice was quiet now, all vibrato having suddenly left him. He turned in his chair to look at his friend. "Are you saying that you weren't sure I would be here? That you thought I could be- tied up somewhere...bleeding to death?"

"No, no, of course not."

"Then what are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked up at John, who was now standing as well, with his hands clasped tight together. He took a deep breath. "I'm saying...I'm saying you may not be entirely safe. This woman, the killer, she told me to leave you at home. She said you would be safer that way. She..." his voice dropped, becoming suddenly gruff, "she asked me if that was what I wanted- to keep you safe." Suddenly, they were very close together. John was looking up at him, worry in every feature of his face. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock reached out and grabbed John by the arm, holding him there, making sure he was looking him straight in the eye. "She threatened you, John. And she's been in our house before. I had to make sure you were alright."

John's gaze fell until he was staring at the floor. "Oh." He stayed there for a few moments, unmoving, until Sherlock was certain he shouldn't have said anything, kicking himself for worrying John about it at all. Then, suddenly, John looked up, and he was smiling in an arrogant sort of way Sherlock had only seen a few rare times. "So," John began, turning away from Sherlock, "she likes _you_," he pointed at the blanket still resting on the couch as evidence, "and she's threatened _me_, your friend, colleague and flat mate." He laughed, "She sounds like Crazy Annie."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit at the way John was taking the news. The man had nerves of steel. "Who's Crazy Annie?"

"There was this girl I knew in school. She had a bit of a crush on me." John made his way back across the room to the couch and continued taking the notes out of the bag and arranging them on the table. "Actually, it was more like an obsession. Seventh year she told all my friends, my tutor, even my sister, to stay away from me, or else. She threatened them, because she wanted me all to herself."

Sherlock followed John back across the room, stopping to lean against the chair, his hands resting over the back. "And what happened to her?"

"Well, they carted her off to the hospital a few weeks later. Turns out, she was actually a bit of a loony, but she got the name Crazy Annie long before that." John was laughing as he finished laying out all the notes. He looked up at Sherlock and cracked another arrogant grin. "You know, since we don't know this woman's name, and we can't call her the letterbox killer anymore, why don't we just refer to her as Crazy Annie for now?"

Sherlock smirked, "Would that make you feel better?"

John nodded. He moved to one side of the couch, bidding Sherlock to sit next to him. They sat together, examining the notes, all seven just small slips of paper containing one number each. Sherlock quickly felt himself becoming engrossed with what the numbers could mean, knew he would be sinking into an hours long silence as he pondered them, but before he did, he looked up at John.

"Thank you."

John glanced up, "For what?"

"For putting me at ease. You were right, I was a bit rattled, I suppose."

John looked back at the numbers, smiling, "I knew it."


	4. Distraction

**Distraction**

_She's a young woman, struggling financially. She works alone. She murders people. _

_Why?_

_To get my attention._

_She knows that I can care about a case only if it's serious. All theft is petty, all other crimes are boring. They have to be interesting, worthy of attention. Someone has to die. She knows that. She uses that knowledge. _

_That can't be all she knows. How she speaks, the things she says, they way she kills, they all strike me strangely hard. She knew they would, that's the reason she does it. The only reason. _

_She had my attention when she killed the first victim over three weeks ago. Now she's just trying to keep it. Each murder was more violent than the last. She's escalating, trying to show me there is a sense of urgency in what she's doing. _

_She wants something. What? What does she want from me? _

_John thinks she's has an attraction to me. That may be so, she wouldn't be the first. Criminals connect to people like them, outliers. Those outside of what is considered normal and regular. They see me as an outlier, just like them. They like to know they're not alone. _

_She works alone. She probably lives alone. Even when she is not alone she always feels that she is. _

_She wants me because she is lonely, and because she thinks we are the same. _

_She resents John because he is my friend. A true loner doesn't have any friends. _

_She doesn't have friends. She doesn't have a savior to take her out of her mind, her abhorrent thoughts, even for a second. There is no one to free her. _

_So she'll fester in her own anger, loneliness and boredom until she goes insane. She may already be insane. _

_Only a person like that would be able to rip a man apart the way she did. Only a person like me. _

_Thank god for John. _

Sherlock's thoughts tripped over each other as they raced through his mind. He could recount everything he knew about the woman in mere seconds. It was frustrating, he should know more. But she'd left no sign of herself at the crime scene. All blood and twisted limbs, no telling fingerprints, no helpful hints. Just a few numbers.

Sherlock stared down over his interlocked fingers at the notes resting on the table in front of him. Seven slips of paper, with seven different numbers, one for each, printed in Arial font. Not even so much as a bit of handwriting to go on. The last two slips of paper were stained with the mangled man's blood. Other than that, the slips were spotless, and perfectly folded into small squares. Sherlock sighed, resting his forehead on his hands. He'd spoken to her twice, seen six of her victims, and was staring at messages she'd left just for him, and still he knew little about her except that she was ruthless and very careful.

His phone buzzed next to him on the table, and before he could even see the words reading "Private Caller" he felt a surge of adrenaline rise up in his chest. Here was another chance to learn more.

"I have your notes," he said, forcing down a tremor that threatened to catch in his throat.

"I know you do. You're looking at them now."

She was watching him. This was nothing new. "The police are searching every inch of this block looking for you," Sherlock waved out his window and around the living room, making certain she would see his cheeky smile from every angle, "or your cameras."

"They won't find anything." Sharp, clunking footsteps sounded in the background. As he listened, they neither receded nor came closer. She was walking somewhere with the phone to her ear. There was no other noise but the echo of her boots. She couldn't be outside.

"Why are you calling me?" It was an obvious thing to ask, but Sherlock was tired of always making small talk, skirting around the subject until she got around to revealing it.

She laughed a little, quietly, and the footsteps stopped. "I just wanted you to know I have a present for you." Sherlock could almost picture her smile by now, small and confident. "But it isn't ready yet."

Suddenly, Sherlock heard heavy breathing over the speaker. Someone, a man, was frightened, his breath coming in uneven gasps, air whistling through his lungs as he heaved desperately. Then there was a noise, a rush, like something heavy arching through the air, then a crack, echoing through the room, as it landed. And then a scream. A scream so close and so loud Sherlock had to hold the phone away from his ear. There were more whacking noises and more screams for several minutes, the victim's voice yelling for help, growing hoarse with every cry. Then, suddenly, there was a few seconds of silence, in which Sherlock could only hear the sound of deliberate, rattling breath, before the beating started again, this time with something heavier, something that inflicted more damage. For several minutes more the sounds of splitting flesh and cracking bone were just audible beneath the renewed cries of the victim. He was no longer able to form words, and Sherlock could hear his screams become more harsh, more impeded as his throat filled with blood. It went on for what seemed like hours, the same agonizing sounds, over and over. Finally, the hacking stopped, and the screams gave way to harsh sobs, and then high-pitched, frightened gurgles that seemed to thicken the very blood in Sherlock's veins. After a few seconds, there was a final hacking noise, loud and wet, and then everything was quiet.

"Now it's ready," she said over the speaker, interrupting Sherlock's stunned silence. Then there was a click, and she was gone.

Slowly, stiffly, Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear and set it down. His eyes were fixed on the table, the notes, but he couldn't really see them. In his mind's eye all he could see was blood, and the horrified stare of a dead man lying somewhere in London, murdered as he had listened, unable to do anything. He stared at the table for several minutes in silence, no part of him able to move, while his mind raced to find a reason. There had to be a reason for this.

The doorbell rang downstairs. Sherlock didn't move; somewhere in his mind he'd heard the noise, but it hadn't registered. Of all the sounds echoing through his head it was the least horrific, and the least important. A minute later there must have been another ring, for then he could hear John's footsteps coming from his room, just audible over the sound of screams.

"No no," John called to Sherlock as he passed by on the landing, "don't move. Please, let me get that."

Sherlock didn't respond. John waved a dismissive hand and rushed down the stairs. A minute later, he entered the living room with a file in his hand. "Some police lackey was sent here to give you the coroner's report on Crazy Annie's alley victim."

The sound of John's voice, his use of the woman's nick name, snapped Sherlock out of the darkened room his mind had taken him to. A place filled with the stench of death, the floor slick with incredible amounts of blood. He looked up, "Oh, I see. I didn't hear the door."

"Of course you didn't."

"What does it say?"

John opened the folder and his eyes scanned the page for a few moments. "It says his name was Alexander Crute. He was a paralegal. He was decapitated, or nearly so, most likely with an ax."

"An axe?" Sherlock brought two fingers to his mouth. That must be the weapon that had made such horrible hacking noises mere moments ago. Had she decapitated the man over the phone as well?

"Yes," John sighed, his voice slowing against the weight of what he was reading, "but before that... he was beaten to death. There's a lot of blunt force trauma, possibly from a bat or a club. All of his ribs, both femurs and both humeri were broken, snapped in two," he stopped suddenly, reaching out for the chair across the table from Sherlock and sitting down heavily. "From the bruising pattern on his arms, it looks like she broke his bones with her bare hands." He passed a picture to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked closely at the photo, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Just a small strip of the arm was visible atop a metal table; outside the picture's range was the point where the arm had been snapped, and clearly visible next to it was a bruise in the shape of a hand. Purple, green and yellow flesh showed the murderer had relatively weak hands, with most of the bruising concentrated on the thin fingers and top of the small palm. The amount of overall bruising showed that the act of breaking the arm could not have been easy.

"Look at this," John passed another picture to him. "The other side of the break. There's another handprint, but there's an additional mark as well. Coroner didn't know exactly what it was."

Sherlock brought the second picture to his face. There was a textured mark over where the handprint was, in a shape very near to a triangle. "It's the print from a high heeled boot," he said, pointing out the shape with his finger. "She couldn't break his arm with just her hands, so she stepped on his arm and- pulled up." Sherlock mimicked the fast jerking motion it would have taken to snap the arm.

John looked away from the photo, toward the table, and shook his head. "None of the other victims were beaten like this. I don't understand."

Sherlock steepled his fingers, staring at the photos while thoughts of the other man, the one over the phone, came back to his mind. Had she done this to him as well? Could any of the sickening snaps he'd heard been his arm splitting in two?

"She wants us to know that she's strong. Not just physically, but in every way. She has killed six men in three weeks, and she's tortured one." He frowned, glancing up at John. Really it was seven and two now. She'd killed seven men and tortured two. But there was no point in telling John until he'd thought everything through. "She's moving very quickly," he continued, "and she's escalating with every victim because she wants to prove to us she is strong, stubborn and unstoppable."

John blinked at the table for a moment, then looked up, his eyes sharp and discerning. "She wants to prove it to _us_, or to _you_?"

"Most likely me," Sherlock sighed, speaking under his breath as he rearranged the notes yet again. "God, why must this be about me?"

John was still staring at him with that deadly serious look on his face. "I'm sure you have a much better idea than I do."

It was only when Sherlock looked up now that he noticed John was wearing his good coat again, over a collared shirt and a tie. This was surely a testament to how distracted he was after receiving the call. Sherlock's eyes flickered between John's clothing and the stern, unyielding look in his eyes.

"You're about to tell me you have to leave now." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and frowned. "We're in the middle of a case, and you're leaving. Again."

John's eyes never wavered for a second, "It's my three month anniversary with Sarah. We've got dinner reservations."

"Of course you do." Sherlock could feel the back of his neck grow hot as he turned again to the notes, knowing now that he would be alone tonight, having only thoughts of the woman, as alone as he was, to keep him company.

"Look, I know you're mad, I was prepared for it," John leaned in, placing his hands on the edge of the table. "And I'm sorry I'm leaving you alone with this, if it were any other night you know I'd stay here with you in a heartbeat. Tonight I just can't. I'm sorry."

"John, please, don't attempt to divine how I feel based on what I say, it's never a good indicator. I'm not mad," Sherlock was only able to hold John's gaze for a second as he spoke acidly, "I just wasn't aware three months was such a _huge_ milestone."

John was offended, Sherlock could tell immediately by the way his shoulders hunched forward. "Well it is for me. Sarah's the first serious girlfriend I've had in years, so yes, this is important to me. It would be nice if you would understand this time."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but the frown on his face became more pronounced as he stared down at the notes. John waited a few moments in silence, watching Sherlock seethe, then stood up and turned to leave. Before he could take a step, however, Sherlock saw him shake his head, square his shoulders and turn back around. He leaned against the table next to Sherlock, suddenly much too close. "We're not all like you, you know," he said, his face a unwavering mask of frustration. "We can't all live out our lives alone, only caring about whatever puzzle's been set in front of us. Some of us need more than that, some of us need actual human interaction."

There it was again, coming up as if from Sherlock's own thoughts: the idea of him as an outlier, not normal, somehow incapable of behaving like anyone else. Even John knew it. Sherlock felt his hands ball up into fists as the heat from his neck spread throughout his body. Suddenly the room was felt like it was on fire and the sounds of screaming and swift slap of an axe were all he could hear. Sherlock snapped his head up to look at his partner. When he spoke his voice was a growl, low and dangerous.

"And how good it must be for you, John, to be able to just get up from the work and leave, no matter how pressing it is. How lucky you are to have someone to go off and interact with, to be _normal_ with. It must be so nice to be you, simple and unburdened by the need for answers." Sherlock stood up and swept past John, into the kitchen where he could no longer feel the man's heat next to him, or the tingle of breath on his neck. The screaming followed him.

John followed as well, hanging back at first, placing his hands on the far end of the kitchen table. "Look, I'm not trying to make you angry. I just want you to be able to recognize, for once, that I'm not like you. I can't just sit here for days on end, staring at those stupid numbers, waiting for an answer to just come to me." He inched forward, slowly, as Sherlock turned away from him. "Answers don't just come to me. That only works for you. Staying cooped up in here isn't doing me any good; it's just going to make me crazy. I won't be of any help that way." He stopped a couple feet from Sherlock, and sighed, the hardened tone gone from his voice. "And, honestly, I don't think I should have to ask your permission, or force you to understand, whenever I want to go out with Sarah. I mean, I know you don't like her but-."

"It's not that I don't like her, she's just nosey and incredibly distracting." Sherlock was nearly whispering now, his arms crossed, refusing to look at John.

"Think what you want about her, Sherlock, but I like her. A lot." John was just a foot away now, his fingers thumping absently on the table.

Sherlock glanced at him, anger dissipating for a second as he realized that John was staring at his feet as he spoke, his eyes flickering back and forth in uncertainty. He was ashamed of what he was saying. Why?

"So, can we please just leave the argument for now?"John continued over Sherlock's racing thoughts, "I made the reservations ages ago and I'm already late. I promise you can yell at me all you want when I get home tomorrow." He was right next to Sherlock now, looking up at him, a tentative smile playing at his lips. "I'll follow you around where ever you want to go, I'll listen to every stupid thought that comes into your head, whatever you want. I promise." The soft tone of his voice and the smell of his shampoo ripped Sherlock's mind from all thoughts of splintered bones and pools of thick red blood.

He looked at John for a long moment and fought the urge to smile back at him. "I don't know what you want me to say."

John shrugged, "Just say you aren't going to sulk for three days if I leave."

"Fine," Sherlock turned to him, arms still crossed, a small smile finally breaking across his face, "I promise I won't sulk for three days. Maybe just the one."

"One's fine." John nodded and padded Sherlock on the arm as he turned to go. "Sulk tomorrow then. I promise not to mind." He stopped just between the kitchen and living room and held his arms out wide, "I am your punching bag," he said, and bowed to Sherlock, grinning.

"No you're not John." Sherlock couldn't look at him, happy to be leaving, every feature of his face, every movement of his body reminding Sherlock what it would be like the second after he was gone. But he smiled anyway, watching his feet, and waited until he heard the door close downstairs. Then, he turned back toward the fridge, leaning against the table, hands pressed to his ears in an attempt to muffle the screams. "You're my necessary distraction," he told John, by now long gone. "You're my savior."

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Please review! I would sincerely appreciate any comments you have.**


	5. Appearances

**This was a particularly difficult chapter to write for some reason. I can't decide if I like it or not. Any feedback you might have would be very VERY helpful. **

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**Appearances**

It was nearly noon when Sherlock heard the front door creak open, allowing in what sounded like two people. It was only this noise, announcing John's arrival home, which finally ripped Sherlock from a train of thought he'd been stuck on for hours. He shifted in his chair, his eyes never moving from the photos taped above the mantel. He'd put up every picture he'd received from the woman's six crime scenes. High resolution photos, filled with figures bleached by the light of the flash, their wounds filling his mind with any and every possible reason for their appearance. It wasn't hard to see a certain pattern amidst all the injured flesh - the woman did have an M.O., if only to a certain extent.

Every victim was a man, always between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, each in good physical condition. These were young men, agile and no doubt difficult to track down and kill. There was a message in this. She may be young, poor and physically weak, but she was perfectly capable of killing even the most strong and fit of men. The question was how.

The first victim had been shot, nine times, from the back. That was by far the most out of place. It was most likely an impulse kill. Her success in this murder may have been what spurred her to kill more. The rest of the victims had all been bludgeoned in some way, ribs broken and skulls battered in every case. The amount of bruising, the number of shattered bones, increased with every victim. The sixth was of course the most ruthlessly destroyed, and he was also the first to be killed outside his home. There was a progression in her actions, an ascending pattern of violence. She was not only angry but impatient, each killing growing more heinous without any warning. There had to be a climax here, something she was building up to.

A woman's voice mixed with John's as the two intruders made their way up the staircase. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was her again.

"Morning, Sherlock," John strode into the living room, grinning, his coat over his arm. When he saw Sherlock, sitting hunched in the same suit he had been wearing the night before, he stopped and a sigh escaped his lips. "You didn't sleep did you?"

"Not at all." Sherlock still didn't move his gaze from the photos on the mantel.

"Right," John nodded, clasping his hands together and shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Well, I just wanted to have a shower, change my clothes. Then we'll go- or stay- whatever you need to do."

Sherlock responded only with a nod, his eyes refusing to meet John's even for a moment. He could feel Sarah staring at him from the doorway. Her presence was disruptive even in silence.

John turned to head upstairs, stopping only to tell Sarah he'd look for her watch in his bedroom. Her voice was quiet, kind, as she told him not to bother himself too much. She would look down here while he was getting ready. Sherlock heard them kiss, softly, before John left the room. Suddenly he was very aware of Sarah, moving in until she was only a few feet from him, staring at the back of his chair, saying nothing.

Finally, after a full minute squirming inwardly under her gaze, Sherlock spoke. "You don't wear a watch." He glanced at her as she turned away from him, a flush in her cheeks. "So, what is it you want?"

Now that she had his attention, Sarah seemed embarrassed, unwilling to speak or even turn back in his direction. She wandered over to the table, her hand playing along the edge as her eyes flickered between the window and the photos of the victims. "I just wanted to talk to you," she said finally, "about John."

Sherlock sat up in his chair, swinging one leg over the side so he could see her. "Lovely," he feigned a toothless smile, "what about him?"

"Did he tell you it was our three month anniversary yesterday?" She was on edge, her voice uneven, her gaze never settling on one part of the room.

"Yes, he did mention it briefly before he left."

"Really? So you did know, then." Her hand curled to clasp the edge of the table as another expression came to her face- a pained look of disbelief. "And do you know how we spent it?"

Sherlock thought a moment. "Well, I'm sure you went out to dinner, some place you've never been before- John trying to remain surprising and impressive. He probably bought you something, nothing too expensive, maybe flowers. Then I suppose you would have gone somewhere for drinks, maybe music, before retiring to your flat." He smiled up at her, "and then I'm sure some things I'd rather not say aloud.

"You like doing that, don't you?" She rolled her eyes. "Well, you're close." With that same pained expression on her face, Sarah stepped forward and came to sit in the chair across from him, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together almost pleadingly. "You're so close. You see, that's how _I _spent our three month anniversary. John spent it worrying about you."

Sherlock brought his head forward, and regarded her with as much incredulity as he could muster. "I'm sorry?"

"He talked about you half the night. About your behavior lately, the case you're working on, how it might be affecting you." Her jaw was tight, behind her words there was resentment, and Sherlock could sense it. "And when he wasn't talking about you, he was thinking about you, constantly checking his phone for any messages you might have left, making sure you hadn't gotten yourself into trouble again. He barely looked at me. I could tell the whole night he just felt guilty about leaving you." She paused, and suddenly her eyes were very hard and unforgiving. "_You_ made him feel guilty about _our_ anniversary."

Sherlock blinked at her, his mind churning behind his eyes. "And this bothers you a great deal."

She sighed, "Yes, Sherlock, it does. You may not see it, but I've put up with a lot. John coming and going at all hours of the night, bolting out the door at one sign that you might need his help. He's like your little pet, and you keep him on a leash so short he can't even have a life outside this flat, and these awful cases, and you."

"Pet? Why does everyone keep referring to him as my pet?" Moriarty had done it. Crazy Annie had done it, and now Sarah. It was frustrating.

"Because that's how you treat him, and that's how he acts."

Sherlock frowned, "Not exactly, no. A pet doesn't have a choice where his master takes him. He follows simply because he has to. John follows- helps- me because he wants to. Not because I make him. There is a difference."

Sarah shook her head at him, the look of complete disbelief returning to her face. "You really don't know what you do to him, do you? You think John has a _choice_? Sure, you let him leave your side every once in a while, but only after he asks permission, and only after you make him feel so terrible he hardly wants to do anything but sit by your side and wait for your next big revelation."

Jealousy was something Sherlock had only experienced rarely in his life, but he found it a very easy emotion to see in other people. Sarah's shoulders were hunched as she leaned forward, her face was red with suppressed anger and she was staring him down, venom in her gaze. The jealousy was hidden behind that stare, in the way her hands shook when she spoke, even as she clasped them together, and it was in the pronounced frown that would not leave her face no matter how little it fit in with her furious expression. Sherlock regarded her for a minute in silence, his head tilted to one side.

"I was never aware of any of this. John hasn't spoken a word about your unhappiness with our"- he hesitated, any number of words could be right here, but then, any number could be wrong as well- "arrangement."

"Of course he wouldn't," Sarah sat back in the chair and the pain behind her expression became more pronounced. She was vulnerable, unhappy. Not something Sherlock was used to seeing from her. "John believes what you do is very important. He wouldn't bother you with such silly things as my opinion. And he would never complain himself."

Against his will and better judgment, a smile crept onto one corner of Sherlock's mouth. "If he doesn't see your side of things, perhaps it's him you should be talking to. I don't see why any of this is my problem."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" she spat back, shaking her head as if she wasn't sure what else to say. She was silent for a few minutes as she stared at the fire place, the nail of her thumb pressed between her teeth. The time ticked sluggishly through tension that Sherlock was beginning to believe unbearable. "Look," she said finally, her voice suddenly calm, rational. "I understand that this is how it's going to be. I started dating John after he met you; I know I'm the intruder in this."

"So kind of you to admit it." Sherlock nodded gratefully.

She shot a sharp look at him, but her voice remained deliberately emotionless. "If this is how things are going to continue, then you have to help me understand something. I need you to answer one question."

"Yes?" Sherlock could feel what was coming with every part of him, but even as he realized it, he knew there was nothing he could do.

"What is John to you?"

He decided feigning ignorance would be best. "I'm sorry?"

She wasn't to be stopped, "You consider him your friend, right? Just your friend."

"Well to be fair, he is also my flat mate, my colleague, my partner and, occasionally, my doctor. But that's not what you're asking, is it?" Sherlock met her gaze, his hands suddenly gripping the arms of his chair. He could feel much of the same anger rising up inside of him as he had felt the night before, a dull ache in his chest and the heat radiating from his neck and back. It was interesting, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so angry twice in such a small space of time.

Sarah was still staring at him. She had something to say, but couldn't seem to find the words to say it. She looked less angry under his stare, more embarrassed, and he knew why. Sherlock stood up and stared at her for a moment, unblinking, before heading to the kitchen in three long strides and pretending to tidy up the table. He would have to be the one to say it, but he didn't want to look at her when he did.

"John's not gay, you know," he said over what he hoped would be an intrusive amount of paper shuffling.

Sarah stood up immediately and stepped toward him, arms crossed. "I know that. If he was gay he wouldn't have been so eager to get off with me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, "I didn't need to hear that."

Sarah continued over him, "But you have to understand that's not always how it looks, and I'm not the only one who thinks so." She was close now, hands splayed over both ends of the table. "Every time John takes me somewhere he's been with you people ask him, 'Where's Sherlock? Have you left Sherlock at home tonight, John?' The last time we were at Angelo's that stupid man claimed he could have sworn you and John were poufs."

Sherlock frowned at the word. "Angelo has always been rather indelicate."

"Damn right," Sarah spat. "That ass had John so embarrassed he barely spoke to me the rest of the night. So, this hasn't just been affecting me, Sherlock. I just want to understand."

Sherlock stopped shuffling papers and looked up at the wall in front of him, "Yes, you said that. What you haven't said is what you've obviously come here, under false pretenses might I add, to say. So why don't you stop wasting both of our time and just say it."

Sarah took a deep breath in, "You said a moment ago that John wasn't gay. You didn't say anything about you."

"Ah, yes, finally we get to the crux of it." Sherlock glanced at her, eyebrows raised, his jaw set tight. "Unfortunately, that is absolutely none of your business."

"It _is _my business." She stepped forward until she was right next to him, looking up into his eyes. Sherlock was reminded of the night before, when John had been standing in much the same place, giving him much the same pitiful expression. Then he had felt a great many things he couldn't describe; now he only felt intruded upon.

"I love John," she said, her eyes still cold. "I could honestly see myself with him for a long time. I deserve to know if I'm in any sort of- of competition, here. I deserve to know the truth."

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment in silence, his face displaying the furious emotion he could feel coursing through his body. Sarah didn't look away from him, her eyes just as angry as his, until he spoke. His voice was low and quiet, and he could feel her shift under the weight of it as he said, "No. I am not gay. Does that clear things up? I'm not gay, John's not gay. Nobody's gay."

Sarah looked down then, at her feet, and all the tension in her body seeming to melt out of her in one instant. She believed him. She breathed deeply, calmly, and ran a hand through her hair. "Thank you. God, I am sorry to pry, honestly, but I just wanted to make sure I- I just..."

She wanted to say more, explain away all her suspicion, but Sherlock could hear John's footsteps coming from his bedroom. He would walk in on them any second. "Did you find your watch?" He said over her shoulder, loud enough for John to hear.

Sarah got the hint; she backed away, into the living room, and turned from him. "Yes," she said, her voice just steady enough to be believed. "Thank you for your help."

John walked in then, wearing one of his long sleeved striped shirts that made him look so thin and fragile at times. Sherlock stepped around the corner and watched John run a hand through his wet hair and question them both with his eyes.

"You found your watch, then?"

"Oh, yes." Sarah smiled, patting the front pocket of her coat. "It took a bit of looking, but Sherlock helped me find it."

Sherlock looked away as they said goodbye, bringing his eyes and this thoughts back to the photos posted on the mantel. He waited to look back at John until he heard Sarah's footsteps on the stairs disappear and leave them in silence.

John was looking at him as if he'd already told a lie. "Did you really help Sarah find her watch?"

Sherlock folded his arms. "Yes. Why do you look so surprised?"

John didn't move, just narrowed his eyes. "That was very nice of you."

Sherlock attempted an imitation of John's incredulous stare, "You sound unduly suspicious."

"Can you blame me?"

"No." Sherlock had a hard time blaming John for anything.

"So," John stepped up to the mantel, examining each picture close up. "What are we up to today? Are we going to stay in staring at gore, or will we actually be doing something?"

Sherlock smiled, coming to stand next to him. "Well we all know what you would prefer. Actually, I had planned for us to go out today, but we're waiting for a call."

John looked up at him, "Not from Crazy Annie, I hope."

"No, Lestrade. I'm actually surprised he hasn't called by now."

A moment passed in which John and Sherlock stood beside each other, both staring at the photos, both smiling softly. Then, to no one's surprise, Sherlock's phone rang. Without a word, John brought it from the table and handed it to him.

"I would hope you'd have a body for me by this point." Sherlock sighed into the speaker.

"As a matter of fact..." Lestrade was outside somewhere. Wind and the sounds of cars passing on the street muffled his voice.

Sherlock didn't let him finish. He didn't need to. "Where are you?"

"West End. Body was found in a dumpster an hour ago. Same injuries as the last victim, but with a lot less blood. We're looking at a body dump."

Sherlock barely heard himself as he asked Lestrade to text him the address and promptly hung up. Blood was pumping hard and fast through his ears, dulling everything but the sound of his own pulse. She had left the seventh victim to be found, somewhere other than the scene of the murder. This was a first. She had killed the man inside this time, he was certain of that, but he couldn't be certain of where. He would have to pray the crime scene contained something that would show him.

Sherlock didn't have to tell John to follow as he collected his coat and scarf and swept out of the room, down the stairs and into the hall. John was behind him, as always, his face bright with the prospect of something exciting to be discovered. Sherlock looked back at his partner only when he had hailed a cab and was waiting for it to pull up to the curb in front of him.

"John," he began, his hands in his pockets, "I just wanted to say...about last night..." he hesitated, his mind racing to find the right words. John stopped him.

"No, please, Sherlock, it's fine."

Sherlock looked up at him as the black cab pulled up, their distorted reflections staring at each other in the window. "I just want you to know- it's not- I don't really..."

"Sherlock," John spoke over him, and the look in his eye made the words die in Sherlock's throat, "I know."


	6. Time

**Oh my god, it's been so long! I'm so sorry for the wait, but classes started up about a month ago and I have been incredibly busy ever since. I will do my best in the future to get things on here more quickly, but I can't make any promises.**

**I have no confidence whatsoever that this chapter is good. I'm almost certain it's not. Please let me know what you think so that I can improve it when I have the time!**

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**Time**

"His name was Arthur Thoune. He was 28 years old."

They were all staring down at it, the shattered, misshapen body that lay in the alley behind a coffee shop, of all things. Donovan had spoken over a heavy silence, reading from the license pulled from the dead man's wallet. No one spoke for another minute, but Lestrade had turned his gaze away from the body, black eyes settling on Sherlock, and was waiting.

"How long since he was killed?" Sherlock kept his eyes down, toward the body. He already knew the answer, but he had to get Lestrade to stop staring.

"About fourteen hours," Anderson spoke from his usual place behind Lestrade. He and Donovan were standing apart from the small group that had assembled around the victim, shadows looming in the darkest part of the alley, both searching through the wallet that had been found beside the body. It wasn't a job for two people, but Sherlock didn't have the energy to waste commenting on how close together they were standing, or how many times they had glanced at each other in the past minute.

Donovan pulled a card from the very back of the wallet. "We've got an ID badge for staff at St. Bart's. Says he was a professor's assistant."

"There must be a note on him," Sherlock said. "Did anyone check his pockets?"

"We thought we'd leave that one to you," Anderson nodded at Sherlock, a look of perpetual disgust atop his usual smarmy expression.

"This is technically your crime scene," John spat back from beside Sherlock. "Why don't you do it? Better yet, why haven't you done it already?"

Sherlock put up a hand to silence John, although he was always happy to hear someone putting Anderson in his place. Without a word he knelt down, one gloved hand hovering over the corpse, trying to find the least intrusive and messy way into the man's pockets. The body was a twisted mass of flesh and skin, rib bones jutting out from his torso, legs bent in the wrong directions, head nearly severed from the neck. Even in the dim light of the alley, bruises were clearly visibly on nearly every inch of exposed skin. If Sherlock thought hard enough to remember the phone call, the victim's screams, the swift blows he'd been dealt, he might have been able to guess which harsh cracking sound had caused each wound.

"There were two different weapons used to injure him, as with the previous victim." He ran two fingers over the bruises covering the man's forearms. "Based on the size of the bruises, the lesser injuries were probably from a bat, a thin one." The sound he'd heard over the phone had been thick, heavy. "Probably made of wood. The rest of the injuries that weren't inflicted by her bare hands, were from an ax." He pointed up at the nearly-severed head.

"Sounds exactly like the last victim," Lestrade shook his head. "Poor bastards."

Sherlock nodded, his wandering hand coming to rest on the pocket of the man's jeans. This appeared to be the only article of clothing on him that hadn't been hacked to shreds. Everyone looked away as Sherlock removed tattered bits of the man's shirt that stuck to his pants with dried blood. He reached into the left one with only two fingers, concentrating on feeling smooth folds of paper and nothing else. After a moment's searching around, he pulled out a small note, the same color and size as all the others.

"That was lucky." Lestrade said. "Imagine if you'd gotten the wrong pocket."

Sherlock shook his head. "Wasn't luck. The note was in the left shirt pocket of the last victim. Our left of course, not his." He glanced at John, "I'm beginning to think Crazy Annie is left handed."

John smirked as the rest of the team stared at them. Lestrade was about to ask who the hell Crazy Annie was, Sherlock could see it on his face, but before he could open his mouth a thought occurred to Sherlock, and he spoke at the dark space beyond Lestrade, where Donovan still stood, bagging the wallet for evidence.

"You said he was a professor's assistant?"

Donovan nodded, "Yeah. What about it?"

Something was beginning to surface in Sherlock's mind, a pattern. "And the previous victim was a paralegal. Not a lawyer, a paralegal."

"That's right…" John was trying to follow him, but without success. "Does that mean something?"

"Do we have files on the rest of the victims here?"

Lestrade looked back at his team, and every pair of eyes stared back at him, unblinking. It was obvious no one had brought them.

"I've been looking over the files for a week now," Donovan said, stepping forward. "What do you need to know?"

Sherlock frowned, "What the occupations of the other victims were, of course. Did you not notice a pattern in the time you were studying the files?"

Donovan was silent for a moment as she took a deep, calming breath in. "I remember there was a medical assistant, and a vice-president of a small printing company." She thought a moment, her eyes searching the ground. "Someone else was a personal assistant, and one I think one was an assistant manager of some retail store."

Sherlock's index fingers were at his lips before she'd even finished speaking. "And you honestly don't see meaning in any of this?"

Donovan stared at him, the bag holding the wallet wrinkling under the force of her grip. "If you've got something to tell us, Freak, then just do it."

Sherlock caught John's expression as he turned from the group and sighed. John had that look in his eyes that Sherlock recognized in few people besides himself, one of sudden revelation. "They're all helpers." John's voice was a whisper; he breathed the words as if they were sacred. "Assistants. Side-kicks. Just like you said, Sherlock, a paralegal, but not a lawyer. A teacher's assistant, but not a teacher."

"A medical assistant, not a doctor. Well done, John, now you understand." Sherlock beamed at him. "It is wonderful to know someone actually listens to me."

"Yes, that's brilliant and all, but what does it _mean_?" Lestrade hissed.

Sherlock's face fell. "I'm not exactly sure. It's obviously a message, a clue. She kills only young, able-bodied males with assistant jobs. There is meaning in the pattern, I just don't know why."

Anderson was about to say something. He was rolling his eyes as he opened his mouth, surely to speak something degrading and wholly unhelpful that would only serve to make Sherlock mad. Before he could form a properly smarmy phrase, however, the phone vibrated in Sherlock's pocket, and he held up a hand. Everyone stopped moving, all eyes falling on him as he raised the phone to his ear.

"Walk to the end of the alley and turn right. Do not speak to the police; do not look over at your pet, just turn around and walk."

There was an edge in her voice today. Where usually her words resonated with sickening kind of calmness, now she spit her syllables at him, her voice a low rumble, like distant thunder. Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground as he turned around, and slowly began his way out of the alley.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John called, following behind him.

"Do not stop," she growled, "do not look back or make any gesture. Just let him know he is not to follow you. When you get to the end of the alley, start running."

Sherlock quickened his pace to stay in front of John. Staring straight ahead of him, the phone pressed to his ear, he said, "Stay where you are, John. Help Lestrade, and then go home. I won't be long."

John came up beside him, his eyes hard even in Sherlock's periphery. "It's her, isn't it? She's telling you to do something. Sherlock, you don't have to listen to her."

"How stubborn your pet is," she said. Sherlock almost couldn't hear her, her hushed voice echoing slightly, like she was feet away from the speaker. "Make him leave us alone."

"Do as I said, John." Sherlock reached the edge of the alley and turned his shoulders toward his friend, keeping his eyes on the ground. "Please."

John stood still for a few moments, fixing him with a stare Sherlock didn't have to see to feel the heat. Then, he seemed to give up. He took a step back and put up his arms. "Fine," he said, his head bent low. "Just be careful, Sherlock. Don't be an idiot."

Sherlock nodded once before turning the corner. Once he was out of sight of John and the police, he took off running, the phone still pressed to his ear.

"Good, Sherlock," she was saying, a bit of that disturbing sweetness coming back to her voice. "Now, do you know the Oxford Street Parking garage?"

"Yes." Sherlock veered right at the next corner. The quickest route there would take him between five and seven minutes, depending on the traffic lights.

She spoke only the number "three" at him before she hung up. Sherlock placed the phone in his coat pocket and kept running until the garage loomed ahead of him, a strange concrete structure with a dizzying cross-pattern along all four of its vertical sides. As he mounted the steps to the third floor, he took out his phone and put Lestrade's number at the ready. This could be a victim, but somehow Sherlock doubted it. The way her voice had echoed, how distant it had been, told him this was much more serious than a dead body.

Three flights of steps brought him to the proper floor. There were no cars on this level, as if the area had been marked off, reserved. A single row of overhead lights lit a narrow pathway to the other end of the building. There, within the strip of light, blurred by distance and the darkness that surrounded it, a figure sat on the concrete ledge, just in front of one diamond opening to the outside, intersecting diagonal beams shaping the brightened window.

Sherlock took a moment, while he still had one, to collect himself. His pulse rate slowed as he took several deep breaths in and forced any irrational fears from his mind. He took slow, calculated steps forward, watching for movement in the figure as he came closer. With every step, more of its outline was visible; it only took a moment for Sherlock to know it was her, Crazy Annie, and that she was wearing a mask.

He was feet from her, taking in as much of her shape as he could see through the glow of the diamond window. She was thin, with slender arms that tapered into delicate wrists. She was of average height for a young woman, but made taller by a pair of leather boots. Dangerous four inch heels, just as he had heard echoing in her phone calls. She was dressed all in black, and her mask might have been worn at a masquerade: black and embroidered with gold around the edges, shaped to cover only her eyes.

"You look puzzled," she spoke, and the sound was so familiar, yet so chilling in person. "Not a look you usually wear."

Sherlock's fingers stretched over the phone in his pocket. "I'll admit I am somewhat confused."

She was smiling, small mouth stretching up to the edge of her mask. "Go on."

"Well, it's just—I'm afraid I don't understand. Why bother wearing the mask?" he said, taking a measured step forward. "If you're going to be here, show this much of yourself to me, allow me to observe you in person, why bother hiding anything? What is the purpose?"

Her smile grew wider, and a few teeth shown between her lips, sharp and bright. "It bothers you, doesn't it? When things are hidden from you, no matter how small. All the pieces of the puzzle may not be necessary to solve it, but it's frustrating to know that your knowledge is incomplete."

"So, you're just trying to upset me."

"You must admit, I'm good at it."

They stood in silence for several moments, both refusing to look away. Sherlock fought down the questions for as long as he could, the roar of curiosity that pounded in his ears, through his veins. She just kept staring at him, that crooked smile he'd always imagined stretching one side of her face.

"You've got more questions," she said. "There may even be some I'm willing to answer. Please, do go on."

Sherlock smiled, spreading his arms wide and looking all around him, at the darkness cut by diamond-shaped lights projected along the edges of the floor. "Why? Why are you here? Why show yourself to me now, _now_ of all times? Why this place? What is the _point_?" Sherlock turned in a full circle, searching in the shadows for anything or anyone that might be hiding there. No signs of movement, no eerie red lights.

"We are quite alone, Sherlock," she said as he turned back to her. "You don't need to worry. And as for your questions, well..." She looked down at her feet, feigning embarrassment. "I suppose the answer is just that I wanted to. It's a flaw of mine. I do what I want, when I want."

Sherlock sighed, "Do you really expect me to believe that? You've managed to kill seven men with calculated timing and systematic technique, all without being detected by the police. You're saying this isn't all just a part of your plan?"

She laughed, the gold sequins on her mask glittering as she shook her head. "What exactly do you think the plan is, Sherlock?"

He stared at her, and she at him, for several more moments without speaking. He understood the plan, her motives; it was obvious, really. The only explanation. She called him, and only him, about her victims; she snuck into his house at night; she controlled his daily thoughts and actions (for he sat always at the ready, waiting to hear from her, waiting for her next move). She tortured no one but him. So, everything she'd done had been for him, to get his attention, to get close to him.

"I know what you want," he said, finally. "But I still don't understand why. Why me? Why do all this?"

She laughed again, quietly, regarding him over steepled fingers for several uneasy moments before speaking. "Come here," she said, her smile suddenly sickening.

Sherlock fought the urge to take a step back. "Why?"

"Someone's got a new favorite word, haven't they?" she tilted her head at him. "Just come here."

One slender finger beckoned Sherlock as he took two, three, four deliberate steps toward her. The ledge she was sitting on was high enough to bring her face level with his. Suddenly he was right in front of her, close enough to make out the color lipstick she was wearing, close enough to smell her floral perfume.

Close enough to feel the cold, metallic sting of a gun barrel pressed against his neck.

Sherlock froze, his fingers searching for the proper button on his phone to ring Lestrade. However this ended, it would be over soon, and the police would need to search the area.

Her eyes roamed over him, slowly taking in every inch of his frame as she shoved the gun further into the side of his neck. "Just don't move," she said. Then she brought a hand to his face, slim fingers touching lightly, and he could feel the warm pressure of her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, and the cold, soft brush of her lips against his. She kissed him lightly once, then pressed herself into him, her tongue forcing its way in to touch his. Sherlock's hands twitched at his sides, wanting to grab her, to push her away, but her eyes were open, and Sherlock could see her glaring at him with gray eyes from behind the mask, daring him to move even an inch.

It was only when she broke away from him, her hand forcing their foreheads together, that Sherlock felt he could breathe and coherent thoughts flooded back into his mind. She stared at him, dizzyingly close, her eyes much harder than seemed appropriate for the way she was smiling.

Before anything could be said, before Sherlock could think of a way to extricate himself from her grasp and run with everything he had from the building, from the gun, from her, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. She released him, one of those heavy boots shoving him backward from the waist.

"Go ahead and get that," she said as he stumbled away from her. "I'm sure it's important."

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock allowed himself to hope it was John. The voice of someone ignorant of what was happening to him would have been strangely comforting to hear. But the name on the phone read _Mycroft_. Sherlock hadn't heard from his brother in over a month; he didn't believe it could actually be him until he heard the familiar voice barking over the speaker.

"How many times must I threaten you with indictment before you agree to stop fiddling with my _surveillance system?_"

Sherlock swallowed one of his stock retorts he kept on file for calls such as this. He glanced over at the woman. Her head was low, her shoulders shaking as she laughed almost silently into her chest. Sherlock wiped any trace of her from his mouth, a sour taste coming to the back of his throat.

"Your surveillance system," he muttered into the phone, his eyes still on the woman. She lifted her head to the ceiling and let out a cackle, low and piercing. Suddenly it seemed so obvious. How had he not realized it before?

"Don't play stupid with me, Sherlock, I know exactly what you've done. Tell me, do you enjoy frustrating me beyond the limits of my patience, or has it become more of a chore for you by now?"

It took Sherlock a moment to realize he was backing away from the woman. She was still laughing, her eyes on the stretch of light above her, the echo of her voice filling the darkness around him.

"I'm afraid I can't speak right now," Sherlock said, careful not to say his brother's name aloud, though he was sure the woman already knew whom he was speaking to.

"Is that so?" His brother's voice dripped with the haughty sort of anger he always reserved for Sherlock. "Well, isn't that convenient. Honestly Sherlock, can't we just end this over the phone? Please don't make me waste taxpayer money on abducting you."

Sherlock wasn't listening. "Whatever you want," he mumbled, his free hand up in a sign of peace as he continued to back away from the woman still laughing on the ledge.

"Who's that laughing? Who are you with?" Mycroft was yelling now, Sherlock was certain if she hadn't been cackling the woman could have heard him.

"Must be going now. Goodbye." Sherlock ended the call over one of his brother's angry threats of prison time. He was prepared to turn tail and run to the stairs, but at the moment he brought the phone to his side, the young woman stopped laughing and lowered her head to look at him.

"My, what perfect timing. How interesting that it took your brother almost a week to see that he was being fed a twelve-hour loop from the cameras on your apartment. He's not nearly as observant as you." She cracked another sickening grin. "But then, you didn't know anything about this until just now, did you?"

Sherlock could feel nails digging into his palms as his fists shook at his sides. Suddenly so much made sense, and yet, if he truly thought about it, nothing did. None of this was right. None of this was the way things were supposed to go.

"Why?" He spat at her, making up the distance he'd just put between them in a few quick strides. "Why do this now? I get nothing but cryptic phone calls and bloody crime scenes for weeks. For weeks you've kept me in the dark, but now, just _now, _you're deciding to show me everything? _Why? _You had the upper hand, _why give me the chance to stop you?"_

"Don't you get it?" She roared back at him, suddenly furious, her fist pounding on the cement below her. "Don't you see by now what's going on? It doesn't _matter _what you know anymore! You're too late! I could tell you everything, _everything, _and you would still never be able to stop me!" She took several deep breaths, the shadows that were her eyes behind the mask never shifting from Sherlock's face. When she spoke next, it was as if she'd lost her voice. "I would suggest you run now," she hissed, "but just know it doesn't matter how fast you are, or how clever. It's already over, Sherlock. It was over the second you left that crime scene."

There were so many questions, pleading ones that begged Sherlock to drop to his knees and scream for answers, but there was no time. He had made a mistake in coming here, in leaving the police, and John, to carry on without him. He didn't have time to ask her why she was doing this to him, why she wanted to hurt him; he only had time to run. Without another word or second glance, Sherlock turned and bolted from her, through the strip of light that led to the stairway.

She was calling after him, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the thunder of his footsteps. "I know what you told that stuffy woman your pet likes so much," she yelled. "Usually you're so honest. Half truths do not become you, Sherlock."

He flung open the door to the stair way, but her message reached him before he could race through it. He hesitated for a moment, his back still to her, willing himself not to turn around and reply.

"I would find him, Sherlock," she called again. "If I were you, that would be my first priority."

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock yelled something unintelligible, something primal and without words, the sound louder even than the threats echoing in his head. Before she had the chance to speak again, to stab him with that soft voice, he disappeared down the twisting flights of stairs, the door slamming on the sound of her laughter.

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